The Music of True Forgiveness
by Adventures
Summary: Amadeus fic. Mozart's death told from the point of view of Mozart and Salieri. Mild slash.


I just watched Amadeus for like, the millionth time. I really, really wanted to write a fan fiction for it, so VIOLA! Here it is! Please keep in mind the fact that I haven't written a fan fiction in AGES so my writing is a bit rusty.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the characters -- in fact, the movie Amadeus was based off of real events and people anyway. So... I don't even know if a disclaimer is necessary.

**This fan fiction switches POV's. It starts out with Mozart's point of view, up until his death, and then it moves to Salieri's point of view. And... yeah, there's some slight slash in here. Mozart/Salieri gay stuff. Whoooo! **

I had passed out during the vaudeville. The last I remember before waking up at home was strong arms, lifting me into the carriage. It was Salieri. I was surprised that _he_ was the one to help me, but more than that I was concerned. "Is it over?" I had asked him, referring to the vaudeville. I couldn't go home if my job wasn't finished. He told me yes, that it was over, and I was satisfied.

Several hours later, I found myself in my own bed. Sure enough, Salieri was right there with me. I hadn't expected him to stay, but he did. My body was aching so much, and I asked him to bring me a glass of water. When he returned, he sat down beside me again.

"You have no intention of leaving?" I asked.

"Why, no," Antonio Salieri looked surprised at the notion. "You are not well, my dear Mozart. Please, get some rest. You gave me quite a scare." Somehow, though, he sounded fake in his voice. I had always known deep down that he didn't care for me. It pained me to think that I wasn't loved by everyone. Does that make me selfish and vain? I suppose it does. But somehow, it was different with Antonio. He was my collegue, we were both composers, and he was always approving and respectful of my work. I longed for his approval more than I did anyone else.

Because he understood music.

And to think that he might be faking it... Faking his love of me, faking his concern for my health at this very minute. It might have been my sickness getting to me, but somehow I felt extremely hurt by this. That he could be faking it, was the worst thing I had ever imagined.

"Antonio, thank you so much," I finally broke the silence. "You are the only one that has come to every single one of my pieces since I met you. I am so flattered that you care this much for my music." I saw him smile, a real smile, for the first time in my life.

"Why wouldn't I? You are my favorite composer. When I was a child, I envied you and looked up to you greatly. I cannot remember a time when I didn't know your name." He placed his hand on mine, gently squeezing. I closed my eyes, nodding. Yes, he was faking it. I could sense it in the tone of his voice. He seemed content with my sickness. Suddenly, a violent knock interrupted my revelation. Salieri glanced at the door, with a questioning look.

"It's him," I explained. "It's... _the man_. Please tell him to go away." I watched him walk slowly towards the door, until I realized I had forgotten something. "Wait!" I shouted at Salieri. "Please... ask him if I can have ... some money now. It would help me finish. Tell him that."

When he returned, Salieri reached out his hand and dropped several gold coins into my palm. Apparently, the the ghost of my father requested that I finish the requiem by tomorrow evening. I knew I couldn't do it. I was too tired to lift my hands to my face, let alone work on a musical piece. "I could help you," Salieri suggested. "I want to help." I couldn't tell anymore if he was being polite or if he genuinely cared. But I needed more money, and so I had to finish the requiem. I agreed to let him help me. After all, he knew music the way I did. He could hear symphonies in his head simply by looking at the sheet music. I had always longed for someone like that.

We worked all night. It took me so long to get him into the music, but he was eventually predicting the notes I was going to say before I said them. I had always underestimated him. I considered Antonio Salieri to be a mediocre composer. His music was childish, silly. I found myself laughing at his work rather than admiring it. But he is not so different from me. I know that now.

My body grew more and more tired, and I was in a lot more pain than when we had started. I felt like I was drowning. I could no longer concentrate on the requiem. "Do you want to rest?" I asked Antonio. I heard my own voice then, and I sounded weak and pathetic. I prayed to God that Salieri would say, "Yes." But he didn't. He looked very eager and excited, and he told me that he wasn't tired at all, that he would like to keep going.

"I can't," I said, sighing heavily. He looked up from the sheet music, and this time I knew things were different. He wasn't looking at me with a fakeness or a false concern. He was looking at me like a fellow human being, like a friend. I felt a tinge in that instant, something I used to feel for my wife a long time ago. Stanze was always there for me, always supportive of my work. But right before she left me, she had grown cold and disapproving. She didn't care about my music, and she didn't care about me. I felt my love for her slipping through my fingers, until just recently -- when it had whithered away entirely. But now, Salieri was here. A man I had always looked down upon, and felt was inferior to me. Here he was, taking care of me, encouraging me, and helping me write my music. My beloved Stanze never once treated me with this level of adoration and respect.

"Will you stay with me while a rest a little?"

"I'm not leaving you," Antonio replied, grasping my hand once more and smiling at me. In that instant, I was so happy. It was an amazing, and yet unexplainable happiness. My wife had left me, a woman who had my child and claimed that she would be with me forever. And yet, here was a man who had always hated me, staying with me despite my sickness. He had surpassed my wife in that sense. I almost felt that I loved him.

"I am so ashamed," I admitted. He looked up at me, questioningly. "I thought you did not care for my work... or for me. Please forgive me." My voice grew soft and hoarse. I felt my eyes close themselves as I drifted off to sleep. He moved from the pen and paper to sit by my side and hold my hand once more. It felt ... nice. I mustered out a final, "Forgive me" before I had fallen asleep entirely.

I felt the afternoon sun on my eyes, gently reminding me to wake up. I saw my son at my bed. He was playfully throwing around the gold that my father's ghost had left. To my right was Stanze and Salieri, arguing. She asked him to leave, and he protested that I needed him, and that he should stay. She had found the requiem laying beside me and she screamed at Salieri for helping me write it. "It's killing him! Can't you see?" she shouted. But I wanted to finish it, and I wanted him to stay with me.

I tried as hard as I could to speak up, to tell her, "It's okay. I want him here." But my voice had given out some time during my sleep. The pain in my chest suddenly grew worse, and I felt my eyes close again. The last thing I remember seeing was Salieri, defiantly trying to take back the requiem from Stanze's hands. In my final moments, he had cared. And she had not.

_This was a music I'd never heard. Filled with such longing, such unfulfillable longing, it had me trembling.  
-Antonio Salieri_

I admit that when I first began to dress myself as his father's ghost, I intended to kill Mozart. I had no idea how I was going to do it, but I knew I must. He was God's little puppet, sent to make me a fool. And he had succeeded. I felt like a child around him. His knowledge of music far surpassed mine. He didn't even have to work at it! It came naturally to him. I wanted that for myself, that talent. But it was his, not mine. I had to take it away from him. If I couldn't have it then neither could he.

But when he passed out during _The Magic Flute_, I somehow felt deeply concerned for him. I had always hated him, but now he seemed to be slipping away. I didn't want him to die anymore.

Many things happened that night. It was so magical for me. He showed me how his mind worked by helping me write his requiem. I had no idea how amazing he truly was. Music was so easy for him, and it was so fluid, perfect when it came out. I still felt like a child, but a child eager to learn. I wanted him to teach me all that he knew about music. After he wrote this requiem, I thought I would ask him. I helped him write it all night, and every so often he would doze off. At first I thought he was just bored with me -- I was too slow for his genius. But that wasn't the case at all. He was extremely exhausted.

He was dying.

It pained me to think that he wouldn't be here much longer. And to know that I was the one who had exhausted him to death hurt even more. It was too late to save him, but I could at least save his music. We were almost finished with the Lacrimosa, when he asked me if he could rest for a little while. He looked at me with such sad eyes, and I couldn't force him to go on anymore. I prepared myself for his death, sitting beside him the entire time he slept.

He died a few hours later, after his wife had returned with their child and scolded him for continuing to work through his illness. She didn't understand what music meant to him. He could not just _stop_. Music was inside of him, and it was meant to be transfered onto the stage, into theaters, everywhere. For everyone to hear. Mozart was meant for this talent. I knew then that what I had done to him was meant to be. He was meant to die young, so his music could live forever. And I was meant to live on, to rot away and watch my music fade into the past.

He had asked me that night, "Do you believe in it? A fire which never dies, burning you forever?" Did I believe in Hell? Yes, I did. I told him that. But I don't believe he is there. He was perfect, and likewise, he has taken his place beside God in heaven. I will never know that bliss. I killed him, and I know that eternal fire awaits me. But I have brought this upon myself. I only wish that I could ask for Mozart's forgiveness. To offer him all I have in return for a simple phrase, "It's okay, Antonio. I forgive you."

But I know, I will never hear those words.

_I heard the music of true forgiveness filling the theater, conferring on all who sat there, perfect absolution. God was singing through this little man to all the world, unstoppable, making my defeat more bitter with every passing bar..._

End


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